Tux felt as if red-hot wires were being drawn across his belly. He didn’t think he could hang on much longer.
“Are you there, Johnny?” he whispered, the .45 thrust forward while he strained his ears for the slightest sound.
Johnny held his breath. Cold sweat ran into his eyes; hit heart hammered so violently he thought he was going to faint.
Then he heard a heavy thud in the passage, followed by two more thuds, and he knew the police had broken in.
He knew what the police would do. They would take no chances. They would kick the door open and spray the room with riot guns. Nothing living in the room would survive.
He lost his nerve.
“Keep out!” he screamed wildly. “Don’t shoot!”
Tux’s .45 went off with a deafening roar. The slug caught Johnny in the centre of his forehead, scattering his brains.
Tux flopped back, tried to lift his gun again as the door kicked open.
He couldn’t find the strength to raise the gun, and a blast of machine-gun fire ripped open his chest.